


a smile worth a hundred lies

by SafelyCapricious



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, F/M, Hydra Grant Ward, Hydra Jemma Simmons
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-02
Updated: 2018-01-16
Packaged: 2018-04-02 11:55:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,190
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4059061
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SafelyCapricious/pseuds/SafelyCapricious
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The lab where Jemma does her postdoc is horrendously underfunded. She thinks that’s the main reason she’s so excited with SHIELD. Anything she wants for her lab and for her experiments she can have by the end of the week.</p><p>HYDRA, it turns out, can get her what she wants by the end of the day.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. first

**Author's Note:**

> This is for the prompt: "oh please, you don't love him, you love his tongue,"
> 
> Title from the song Sweet About Me by Gabriella Cilmi

The lab where Jemma does her postdoc is horrendously underfunded. She thinks that’s the main reason she’s so excited with SHIELD. Anything she wants for her lab and for her experiments she can have by the end of the week.

HYDRA, it turns out, can get her what she wants by the end of the day.

The reveal or the fall or the overthrow, or whatever it’s actually being called – she’s heard all the versions but isn’t sure which one is official – goes very gently at the Beacon.

She sleeps through it.

She isn’t the only one. The Beacon is nearly entirely science personnel who either aren’t cleared for the field or have no interest in it. Of the operations and communications personnel that are the minority, ninety-five percent of them were already HYDRA. The loyal agents don’t even manage to so much as twitch before they’ve been locked up or killed.

So Jemma gets ready for her day, as normal, the next day and then finds she isn’t allowed out of her room. No one will tell her why, not that she cares actually. What she cares about is not wasting months of research because she can’t check her cell cultures when she needs to. Does no one respect that she has a very important schedule?

She’s managed to badger the guard at her door enough that he’s gotten someone higher up who has actually listened when she explains that months of research on the calming virus she’s created would be wasted if she isn’t allowed into her lab.

They are kind enough, then, to wait until after she is done with her maintenance before quizzing her about her loyalties. Jemma still hasn’t been told that SHIELD had fallen, but she isn’t stupid and there are signs that something is up – the SHIELD insignia being painted over in the corridor, for example. And the smear of blood someone hasn’t done a good enough job of cleaning up. Still, she replies honestly with, “I’m loyal to my science. If you don’t need me here I am certain I can find work in the private sector, but I must insist you allow me to finish my research here first.” This was her mindset when she started at SHIELD and a large part of the reason why they had her located at the Beacon instead of at the Sandbox.

They cheerfully hire her on, increasing her salary and her health benefits and leaving her to her work.

She thinks that maybe she should be more concerned about the changes, but she is about to make a breakthrough with her virus and it is the science that is important, it always has been.

She doesn’t find out that those scientists who had refused to switch their loyalty had either been forcibly enrolled in the incentives program or brainwashed until months later, due to her focus. (By then she’s made her breakthrough and has a lovely competent nano-virus with a whole slew of implications that she is still testing.)

The brainwashing she doesn’t like.

It’s not that she objects to it, _morally_. It’s just that it’s a terribly inefficient process, especially when applied to geniuses. HYDRA is paranoid enough that only a select few individuals are able to command those who have been brainwashed, and none of them are scientists, not really. Which leaves the brainwashed scientists rather rudderless. Their orders are either too narrow or far too wide and it leaves their science and results deeply suspect. (She will admit that they make decent lab technicians and are very good at completing simple repetitive tasks, but so wouldn’t a brainwashed civilian.)

She intends to look into creating a drug that produces the same results as the brainwashing, but hopefully with some more directed independent thought. She hasn’t gotten very far in it yet, however.

The incentive program produces slightly better results, with scientists who can still think independently. But when they go rogue it’s deeply time consuming.

Jemma gets good at spotting that look in their eye and notifying one of the operations agents who are always around before her work gets disrupted. And then, after a few months, when she starts to be trusted (she knew they were watching her, she just didn’t care) she asks to be moved into a lab where she won’t have to deal with these sorts of setbacks.

This is when she discovers that there’s some internal hierarchy struggle over those who were HYDRA before the fall of SHIELD and those who only came to it after. Jemma doesn’t care much about who was HYDRA before, everyone is HYDRA now, and there is science to be done.

Jemma goes through three labs of scientists who believe themselves superior to her because they started HYDRA, because they are men, for some other reason she doesn’t bother to find out or some combination thereof. She knows she could take care of any or all of them easily enough, but the work they are doing is good, if not as advanced as hers. So instead she calmly tells her minder that either they go or she does – and she gets a new lab.

The lab she finally ends up in is occupied by five scientists: one brainwashed, two originally HYDRA, one who wasn’t even SHIELD but was recruited after the fact, and herself.

All of them are female.

In this lab no one has tried to steal her work – not once. And so despite any other complains she has, she’s grown oddly fond of it. Despite Kelsey Lorenzo and Anna Gilbert, who she mentally refers to as Tweedle-Dee and Tweedle-Dum. She cannot say that they aren’t intelligent or productive, they are both those things most of the time, they are just also catty and gossipy and mostly _loud_.

They’re both HYDRA legacy, which is, apparently, a _Thing_. They have the common sense _not_ to bother Jemma about her own belated joining, in fact, they mostly seem to want her to join in with their gossip, but she’s not interested.

Today she has had to put up with Kelsey gushing about the new man in her life, some specialist that her ‘daddy’ gave to her. (Jemma refuses to touch _that_ with a ten-foot pole.) And Anna is sighing over how jealous she is. They’re only referring to the specialist as B.R. and so Jemma has taken to thinking of him as Boo Radley and has to fight back a snicker every time Kelsey sighs over his skills.

She completely misses how the two other women keep glancing at her, hoping she’ll join in.

Of course, after nearly forty-minutes nonstop of Kelsey bragging that ends with her sighing and saying, “I think I’m in love,” Jemma snaps.

"Oh please, you don't love him, you love his tongue," she says sharply, without looking up from where she’s loading the nanoject.

A low and very masculine chuckle is the only response she gets, and she glances up, confused. There’s a tall, dark haired man leaning against the doorjamb of the lab dressed in tactical gear. Every lab always has an operations agent in the room, just in case, but they don’t wear full tactical gear. She glances around and sees that their operations expert, Samuel Vincent, is stiff and at attention, which is unusual since they aren’t considered a high-risk lab and he’s usually half asleep against the wall. Kelsey is staring at the stranger, flush high on her face, and Anna is staring fixedly at the ground.

Now, Jemma may find the two other women silly, but they’re still part of her lab unlike this gorgeous whoever, and she scowls at him when he says, “Whose tongue are you in love with?”

She makes a cutting motion with her hand and says, “None of your business. What do you want?”

Kelsey makes a strangled sound in her throat that Jemma ignores, calmly staring the stranger down. His smile grows for a long moment before he steps forward and pulls a gun.

No, not a gun, she realizes after a moment, but one of the knock-out pistols that she’s been semi assisting on. The other person working on them was apparently in the incentives program but had managed to escape and she doesn’t know enough engineering to finish the project herself. She hasn’t seen this newest prototype and her hands itch for it.

“Which one of you is Simmons? The weight of this is off. It’s an ounce heavy.” Jemma scowls and steps forward, quick hands taking apart the prototype before he can protest.

“It’s Dr. Simmons. And I wasn’t in charge of this prototype, but…” she narrows her eyes down at the gun and then starts to put it back together again. There are a handful of parts she doesn’t replace, and when she sets it on the table and steps back, arms crossed, she can tell he thinks she’s being ridiculous. She arches an eyebrow at him in challenge and gestures at it.

He frowns, finally, picks it up, tests the weight and then turns faster than her eye can follow and shoots Vincent. Kelsey and Anna shriek, and she sighs as Vincent goes down. Now they’re going to have to wait for a new operations agent to show up.

“Was that really necessary?” she asks as he fiddles with the gun, checking its balance or something.

He looks over at her, smirks and arches an eyebrow. “How else did you expect me to test it?”

“I didn’t expect you to test it, I expected you to tell me if the weight was right.”

He grins at her and almost looks boyish. She’s braced for trouble before he speaks. “Well how else would I know that you didn’t remove something vital?”

She rolls her eyes at the flirty tone in his voice and turns to walk back to her bench. “Do you even know which variant of the dendrotoxin you shot him with?”

There’s a long moment of silence, and when she looks up she sees that Kelsey and Anna are checking on Vincent. Their guest has an eyebrow raised like it doesn’t matter. She lets out a short breath and pulls on her gloves before pointing a finger at him. “Congratulations, you get to stay here until either he wakes up or the work day ends.”

He has the nerve to actually laugh at her. She stares him down through it, determined to make sure he knows she means it. He isn’t cowed – which is fine, most people aren’t at first. But he does wink at her and walk closer. “Why? You want me to take you out later?”

It’s her turn to laugh in his face. She shakes her head and turns away, still snickering to herself. “No. Don’t be silly. We have to have an operations agent in the lab, per regulations, and you just knocked ours out. So you get to replace him until we’re done here.”

He leans closer and brushes some of her hair back out of her face and tucks it behind her ear. “Or I could take you somewhere now and you could shut down early. I promise you won’t get in trouble for it.”

She shoots him such a poisonous look that he actually pulls back slightly out of surprise. “I’m in the middle of something. Go wait against the wall.”

He caresses behind her ear but then goes, amused, and leans against the wall. She can feel his gaze fixed on her for the few moments it takes before she’s sunk fully back into her science. Abstractly she’s aware of silence from Kelsey and Anna and then eventually gossip – but at a much softer volume.

About an hour later the noise level rises enough that she actually stops injecting mosquitos and looks up. Anna is helping Vincent to his feet, Kelsey is hovering nearby and the stranger is still staring at her. He meets her eyes, salutes, winks and leaves by the time that Vincent is seated with some water.

Kelsey comes over to Jemma once the door is shut, her voice is a high-pitched whisper as she points at where he’d been standing, “That was _Grant Ward_! I cannot believe you gave Grant Ward an order! And he _listened_!”

Jemma sighs, peels off a glove and pats the other woman on the shoulder while she practically hyperventilates at her. She decides not to tell the panicked woman that she has no idea who ‘Grant Ward’ is, beyond apparently the name of the stranger who had interrupted her science.

It takes her fifteen minutes to calm everyone down enough that she can go back to work.

At five, Kelsey and Anna leave. Jemma, due to the distractions throughout the day, isn’t done yet so she holds up a finger for Vincent and he settles back against the wall. The brainwashed scientist hasn’t twitched in the last hour since she hasn’t received any commands, and the civilian scientist was gone all day, so it’s very quiet with the loss of the gossiping ladies.

A little less than an hour later, Jemma is finally done. She takes a moment to put everything away, still mentally evaluating a problem, and when she looks up she’s surprised to see that Vincent has already taken the brainwashed scientist away and Agent Ward is waiting for her by the door.

She wrinkles her nose but washes her hands like she doesn’t have a care and walks over to him after they’re dry. “What, is something else an ounce off?”

He smirks and makes a show of looking her over, now that her lab coat is off and hung over the back of her chair. She resists the urge to roll her eyes and waits, crossing her arms. “I’m here to take you out, of course.”

It’s then that she realizes that while he’s still all in black, it’s no longer tactical gear, but instead a black Henley and black jeans and combat boots. She arches an eyebrow at him because, ugh, specialists before stepping around him and through the door. She’s not sure if he thinks she’s leading him to her room so she can change to go out or because she’s a very forward sort of woman or what. His look of surprise once she’s stepped in her room, said, “Go away,” and slammed the door in his face had been worth the hour he’d managed to put her behind today however.

She’s not even vaguely surprised when he shows up in her lab the next day to flirt.

He is surprised when she pats his hand and transfers the dendrotoxin patch she’s created onto his skin and he passes out. Vincent is eyeing her in alarm, but mostly she’s just glad the other agent hadn’t left yet. They don’t have to wait for another one to show up, now that Agent Ward is unconscious.

Kelsey and Anna don’t gossip at all, or say anything really, for the rest of the day.

The quiet is lovely.

It’s one of the best days in her lab she’s ever had.


	2. three weeks later

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There are many advantages to living on the base – like not having her electricity turned off because she forgot to pay it on time – but the fact that she can be found at any time is certainly a downside.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a timestamp to the original fic (chapter one) set three weeks later. I wasn't expecting it to get as long as it did so...here it is.
> 
> As always, I'm behind on all sorts of replies and I'm sorry.
> 
> Also I've had this prompt for ages, so special apologies to thestarfishdancer for not getting around to it until now.

There are many advantages to living _on_ the base – like not having her electricity turned off because she forgot to pay it on time – but the fact that she can be found at any time is certainly a downside.

She scowls at her clock as the polite but persistent knocking continues. 4:37 mocks her and finally she grabs a pair of pants and goes to answer the door – because if they aren’t waking her up to actually do something she might test out the weaponized version of the Chitauri virus she’s been fiddling with in her free time.

She pulls open the door and then starts to pull on her pants as the communications agent – she doesn’t recognize him and his badge is flipped the wrong way but he’s wearing the standard comm jacket and isn’t fit enough to be an ops agent pretending – gapes at her in shock.

“What.” She demands, annoyed – as he stares and stutters like he’s never seen legs before.

He snaps to attention – actually raising his hand to salute her before he stops himself – and focuses on the arch of her doorway. “Your presence is required, Doctor Simmons,” he pauses but she must manage some indication to continue because he flinches than says at an even faster clip, “an agent has been exposed to an alien artifact with known behavior altering properties and the director would like for you to collect the samples you need to try and recreate or mitigate the unwanted effects.”

She takes a moment to look him over as she does up the button on her jeans and she decides that he did, probably, memorize that speech but that he still might have an actual idea about what’s going on. Even if he does seem terribly jumpy. Though if his orders do, in fact, come straight from the director – if he was given the job of delivering the message to her straight from the director, well, she supposes she can understand his desire to say the exact words requested.

She’s had a chance to meet the director recently, too, which makes her being singled out slightly less alarming. Just two weeks previously she’d been summoned to his office. She half expected to be chastised for repeatedly knocking out her specialist visitor who persisted in interrupting her lab work – though, in her defense, it had been a few days since she’d done so – instead she’d been quizzed on her actual research and any ideas for future projects she had. They get along well – he appreciates her dedication to science and she appreciates that appreciation – but that doesn’t mean she’d feel remotely safe disobeying a direct order.

She leaves her door open as she goes back into her apartment to collect her shoes and badge, not bothering with an actual shirt over her cami as she’s sure they’ll have a lab coat for her.

They _should_ have a lab coat for her. Hers if they’re at all competent, but she hasn’t decided if she thinks that’s likely yet.

The comms agent is still jumpy as they speed walk through the nearly empty base. She questions him about the artifact, when and how it was originally discovered and what is known about its effects. For all of his clear memorization of the earlier request he can answer most of her questions, if not all. By the time they’ve reached their destination she knows that it’s some Asgardian war staff that is the origin of the Berserker legend but that creates a dangerous instability in those who are exposed to it. She can see why the director would like a way to use that – or to turn the instability against their opponents.

 She’s still suspicious as they walk down to the basement in Building Five, however, as he keeps jumping back when her shoulder hits his arm and she’s slightly concerned this is some variety of ambush. It would be a badly thought out one – if they already have access to Building Five which is in the center of the Beacon than they would not need to go to such lengths. But he doesn’t lead her into a dark room or anywhere suspicious, instead he stops in a well-lit corridor outside a room with a small window in the door.

Through the window she can see chaos.

In the middle of the room, surrounded by monitoring equipment, half strapped to a reclined chair – one that can clearly be turned into a cot if need calls for it – is Grant Ward. There are two unconscious men, ops agents, on the floor by his side as another six slowly circle him – a few more huddle off to the side though she cannot tell how many through the small window – probably trying to figure out how to finish strapping him down as he snarls at them.

Jemma sighs and pushes the door open. His gaze fixes on her and he stops moving for a moment. She rolls her eyes and expectantly holds out a hand for a lab coat. The comms agent at her back clears his throat and then one of the huddled agents, not all of them are ops she can see now – it’s a variety including two scitech agents even, is placing one in her hand and she’s shrugging it on. Everyone in the room has stopped now, as she walks close enough to see the read outs on the few machines that they have managed to get him attached to.

“Oh, don’t do that,” he says, voice hoarse in a way that makes her think he’s been yelling far too much, as she buttons up her coat.

She rolls her eyes – reassured with the familiarity of his words – and steps over one of the bodies to read a print out. “Have they taken any blood, saliva or tissue samples?” she asks him as she reads over the EKG.

He snarls instead of responding and when she looks up she sees the pack of agents from the corner inching closer. His heart rate spikes and she frowns at them – they stop abruptly. “Wait outside,” she says. They don’t move. She points at them than at the door – an arm curls around her waist and Grant pulls her slightly closer to his side. “Now.” She adds, voice firm, before singling out the agent who woke her, “Except you. You need to get me a phlebotomy kit, disinfectant, at least two petri – Just grab the blue case in my lab, actually, that should have everything.” They still don’t move until she shoos them with her hands – and then they scatter.

His hand is warm through her lab coat and familiar. He’s been noticeably absent for the past week, but prior to that he’s been around nearly every day – even after she managed to knock him out three days in a row. She won’t say that she’s gotten fond of his interruptions – just that she’s gotten used to them and he has learned to time them better, mostly coming in now when she does actually have time to spare.

Plus the lab is always blissfully silent for at least two hours after he visits these days – Tweedle-Dee and Tweedle-Dum too intimidated to make more than a peep.

So she is rather relieved to find that he’s relatively fine, or at least not going to be gone on some yearlong mission.

When she turns to face him, his arm loosening to give her the slack she needs to do so, his gaze is still fixed on the door where the last of the other agents are leaving and so she takes the moment to catalogue the differences that may be due to exposure.

He’s got some small bruises, and a cut by his eye she can see now, but he mostly seems physically unharmed – but his heart is also elevated and she can see the tension in all of his muscles and how he can’t quite keep his gaze still. He’s jumpy – which she’s fairly used to from ops agents, but she’s never seen him anything but in control and relaxed (even when she’s knocking him out) – and she finds that she doesn’t like it.

It is her lab coat that they gave her, which is a blessing as it means she can start her testing before the comms agent gets back. She has her penlight ready when he does turn to her and she quickly shines it in one of his eyes. The pupil contracts immediately and as soon as she takes it away it’s blown back to its original diameter – remarkable.

 He doesn’t even blink, though he does start to stroke her side. It would annoy her more if it didn’t mean that he sits quietly through the rest of the experiments she can manage without her bag. But as soon as she’s tucked the last of her equipment back into her coat pocket he yanks her even closer – as there is currently a gap between her and the bed.

 Her foot catches on the arm of one of the downed men – he groans but doesn’t stir as she accidentally treads on his fingers – and somehow Grant uses the lurch in her movement to spin her so that she finds herself perched on his chair by his hip, facing him, with his arm even more securely around her. He’s also, somehow since he hasn’t moved his arm from around her waist and his other hand is restrained, managed to undo the fastenings on his other arm and he tucks some of her hair behind her ear once he’s settled her.

She sighs, irritated. But once the comms agent – she never did catch his name did she? – returns she’ll need to be close so there’s no use fighting him on this yet. Besides, from here she can secure the rest of the machines against him, and she leans over him to do so – carefully catching sensors and placing them against his muscles as his fingers trace circles over her lab coat.

“How are you, Jemma?” His voice sounds reasonable again, if still terribly rough, – without the animal snarl from earlier – as he takes remarkable care in enunciating her name into a verbal caress.

“Tired,” she says, shortly, and then frowns at him. “Why on Earth did you touch an alien artifact? What were you thinking?”

He shrugs and she realizes that he’s somehow gotten the top five buttons on her lab coat undone without her noticing. She does roll her eyes again this time, but it’s not like she’s actually dealing with any chemicals she’d have to be concerned about. “It was an accident – SHIELD had regained it and I was sent to retrieve it.” He shrugs again, and now his arm is around her waist under the lab coat – his hand seeming even larger and warmer through the thin silk of her camisole. “I retrieved it.”

She purses her lips but doesn’t pursue the matter – especially not when the comms agent inches through the door. He’s got her bag held in a white knuckled grip and she gestures impatiently as he stops, three feet from the foot of the chair. Jemma rolls her eyes again at the uselessness of comms agents and snaps her fingers. “Bring it here. Now.” When he still startles to a stop too far away for her to reach her bag just because Grant has shifted _she_ snarls – she’s tired and she wants this done so she can go back to sleep – “Bring it to me or I will make your very short existence miserable.”

 That works well enough – he even manages to drag the body at the side of the chair far enough away that he can move a side table closer that she can use. He pales more at her smile than her scowl as he leaves.

 Grant, however, won’t move his arm – the arm that’s still tight around her waist – so that she can take her samples. He doesn’t so much as blink while she scowls at him, though it does make his lips twitch into a smile.

“I want to go back to bed,” she says, tapping his arm, “so let me take your blood and a few other samples.”

His grip tightens on her and the look on his face, suddenly, would be frightening coming from anyone else. “Why?” he asks, voice deceptively soft, “Who is in your bed, Jemma, that you need to get back to?”

She only considers lying for a very brief moment. She decides that might be bad for the same reason that telling him it’s none of his business would be – which would be her answer under any other circumstances, but she doesn’t trust whatever physiological effects he’s experiencing will spare her if she provokes him unnecessarily. So she taps his arm again and tells him the very simple truth. “No one is in my bed. Most notably, _I’m_ not in my bed, which is the problem. Let me take the samples.”

His grip softens again and he caresses her side – she’s not sure if it’s supposed to be an apology or if he just likes the feel of silk – and his expression is closer to one she’s used to. “But the longer it takes you, the longer I have you here.”

It’s tempting to just jab him to make him move – or knock him out. Unfortunately she’s not sure how he’d respond to her attacking him and since she can’t knock him out physically and she’s not willing to compromise her samples with dendrotoxin before she’s taken them she doesn’t have many options. She could call the whole mess of agents back in to restrain him while she goes about her business but…

She hesitates and then makes an offer that she knows she’s going to blame on how tired she is tomorrow. “Let me take my samples, quickly, and I won’t pass this job over to someone else. I’ll need more samples from you and you’ll need to be under surveillance until we’re sure you’ve purged the last of the effects – or until we’ve come up with something to mitigate the effects. It can be me or it can be that pack of agents from earlier.”

He considers her, thumb rubbing against the bottom of her rib cage. “What about tonight then? You want to take the samples so you can sleep but if I need surveillance…?”

She wrinkles her nose and waves a hand. “Oh, after I get my sample I was going to have you fight the pack of agents and have it recorded – from what I understand from the report of the first time this was found physical violence was extremely grounding. Then there will be another set of samples.” She considers for a moment and then arches an eyebrow, “Unless you don’t think you could take all of them? They could take shifts?”

She’s expecting his snarl this time, but he still hasn’t moved his arm and she really wants her sample, so when he doesn’t manage anything verbally she decides to push him, just a tiny bit more. “It’s worth noting that every time they have to wake me up in the middle of the night to deal with this they’ll see me in a state of undress – again. Whereas if you agree and I am doing primary surveillance that won’t occur.”

 He yanks her into his chest and manages to make actual words, this time, even if they’re just, “I’ll kill them.”

 She pats his chest, pleased that his grip on her is fairly gentle for all that he’s holding her secure – it makes her feel less concerned about his actions – and says, “Only if you don’t let me get my samples.”

He stares at her, eyes dark and teeth bared, for another long moment where she can feel his pulse pounding frantically under his skin, and then abruptly he lets go of her. She wastes no time in collecting samples of his blood, fingers absently petting his arm as she does so to keep him calm. The tissue sample, which she was expecting more trouble with, also goes surprisingly easily with him simply staring at her as she cuts a small piece of flesh from his shoulder. It’s actually the urine sample that gives her the most trouble as he, apparently, doesn’t need to relieve himself.

Jemma gets him to promise to remember to collect it as soon as he does and finally, finally drags herself out of the room and back towards hers – after sending him and the pack of agents who are still present outside the door to one of the gyms with surveillance equipment.

She’ll have to distribute her laboratory work among the others in the morning, although she just finished her most recent project and luckily only has a few things they’ll need to keep up with.

She doesn’t even bother to take her pants off before falling into her bed and back asleep. Her dreams are full of dark eyes and snarling mouths.


	3. third

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Shortly after graduating, Jemma toyed with the idea of becoming a field scientist. There seemed something almost romantic about it, and the thought of having to make cures in a time crunch with only what a jungle and poorly equipped lab could provide did appeal to her in a way lack of funding didn’t.
> 
> But after speaking to a field scientist she’d changed her mind. Apparently field scientists were rarely able to finish their projects, instead always on the move and leaving the work to be shipped back to a base and finished by someone else.
> 
> No one could finish her projects better than her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the prompt “I’ll still be here when you’re ready.”
> 
> Hope you enjoy!

Jemma never searches out gossip, but it comes to her anyways – Anna and Kelsey, even in their whispers, are impossible to ignore.

 Others, she suspects, without her intellect and ability to multi-task, would subconsciously tune them out to focus. She, however, is capable of hearing and understanding what they’re saying without it interrupting her own work or thought processes.

She could, she supposes, listen to music to drown them out. But that’s certainly not SOP, and while she doesn’t object to the flouting of some of the more ridged standards, the safety risk of not being able to hear around her when everyone in the lab is working on their own, fairly dangerous, experiments is more than she’s willing to bare.

Unfortunately they’ve been getting steadily louder, as time passes since the last time Grant came to talk to her and his intimidating impression has started to fade. It’s been close to a month, now, since he worked through the last of the effects of the Asguardian berserker staff, and about as long since he was sent out somewhere or another. She’s been so occupied, of course, with attempting to recreate or weaponize the effects of the staff, that she’s barely even noticed he’s gone.

Except, naturally, in terms of his absence on the volume changes of her coworkers.

But it’s only because of them, their volume, and their penchant for gossip that she has any sort of idea who the tall intimidating woman who storms into their lab one Tuesday afternoon is. She’s got two specialists behind her that Jemma recognizes, and they’ve got pinched looks to their faces that speak clearly to how well this is going to go.

“Scientists: Bradford, Gilbert, Lorenzo, Simmons, Thomson, of laboratory number 3I7-XZ” the woman says with a sneer, “line up.”

Jemma rolls her eyes and turns back to her work. “I assume you mean once we finish what we’re currently working on as the vast majority of our projects are extremely time sensitive.”

The woman – predictably – reacts poorly. Much as Jemma is expecting. But her reaction is, still, interesting.

Jemma doesn’t jump as the hand slams to the table by where she’s doing her work, nor does she so much as twitch as her space is suddenly invaded. Her hand on the pipette doesn’t tremble. As intimidating as the woman clearly thinks she is, she has nothing on Whitehall – and Jemma had tea with him just the day before yesterday. 

“I,” the woman says, as menacingly as she possibly can, “am here to find the mole. And _I_ will do it,” she slams her hand against the lab bench again, “however _I_ see fit.”

“That’s lovely, and we, of course, wish you the best of luck.” says Jemma, offering the woman a smile before going back to her work. “ _I_ am here to finish this compound for director Whitehall. And I will do so, until the director himself tells me otherwise. I can be with you in about fifteen minutes though, if you’d like to wait.”

(Jemma thinks Kelsey mutters, “oh snap,” but she’s not entirely sure what that means and she doesn’t want to ask.)

The woman – Jemma still hasn’t caught her name – grinds her teeth as Jemma’s smile grows. If the woman was expecting to find little lab mice who took orders well, she should’ve gone to SHIELD.

Jemma finishes up her 96-well plate and moves onto the next.

The woman slams her hand down once more, snaps that she’ll be back, and leaves – her two specialists following after her like baby ducklings. 

There’s a hush in the lab again that lasts for the rest of the week. It’s lovely.

 

***

 

“Just a moment, Dr. Simmons,” Bakshi says as she walks into his office, “Make yourself comfortable while I finish up here.”

Agent Morse is there – shooting her a glower as she settles into a seat and grants Bakshi a smile.

After an awkward moment of silence, while Jemma settles down, crosses her legs at the ankles and smooths over nonexistent wrinkles in her pants, Agent Morse finally speaks again – finishing up her report.

Jemma waits, smiling serenely, until the other woman has left and Bakshi has turned his full attention to her with an arched eyebrow.

“I’d like to report someone,” she supplies, without prompting.

Bakshi, who has been dealing with her laboratory switches since fairly early on, rubs the bridge of his nose. “You don’t even have any incentivized agents in your lab, Dr. Simmons.”

“Oh, no,” she says, still smiling, “not in the lab. Everyone in the lab is loyal – though Thomson is worth very little as a scientist anymore, you know. Have you had the chance to try my new formulation to assist with the compliance training?”

Bakshi points a finger at her and takes a deep breath before it drops back to his desk. “Stay on task, please. Who are you reporting?”

“Oh,” she says, shrugging, “one of the moles.”

Jemma can’t help but grin as Bakshi stills and looks at her with slightly wider than normal eyes. “ _One_ of the moles?”

“Yes,” she agrees, satisfied, and leans back in her chair, “there are at least two. Though I suspect one of them is here to pin the single label of mole on someone else, or maybe just as backup. I’m not sure on that point, I suppose.”

“Ah,” he says, as if he comprehends. He doesn’t. But she’s used to that. And he’s used to her, so he lets her work her way around the explanation.

“I had my suspicions, of course, but I wouldn’t have realized had they not tried to leave incriminating evidence in my desk.” Jemma shrugs. “Stupid of them. So now I know who they are.”

“And,” Bakshi asks with a sigh, when she doesn’t supply more information promptly, “how do you know who they are?”

“I put a DNA scanner on my desk, of course. Not to keep people out, just to log who has opened which drawer. It’s still in the trial stages, you understand, but it should be ready to be used widespread very soon.” Jemma fusses with her bag and brings out a tablet, but she leaves it on her lap as she waits for Bakshi’s response.

“Of course. I’m sure the director will be thrilled. The mole, Dr. Simmons, who is it?” If he didn’t try so hard not to get flustered, she thinks, she wouldn’t bother to toy with him. But it’s very entertaining to watch him attempt to keep control of the situation when he’s intellectually overwhelmed. He used to try to imply threats at her, when they played this game, but since she’s been taking tea with Whitehall, he’s ceased anything even vaguely highhanded with her. It makes it even more entertaining.

“The mole,” Jemma says, then hands him the tablet, “slipped this into my desk. The notations are shoddy, I think you’ll find, and quite not up to my standards. So it’s quite ridiculous she’d think it could even pass as my work.”

He takes it, looks at it, sighs. “Are you going to tell me who the mole is, eventually?”

“Yes,” Jemma says, blinking, “of course. It’s Agent Morse.”

 

***

 

Shortly after graduating, Jemma toyed with the idea of becoming a field scientist. There seemed something almost romantic about it, and the thought of having to make cures in a time crunch with only what a jungle and poorly equipped lab could provide did appeal to her in a way lack of funding didn’t.

But after speaking to a field scientist she’d changed her mind. Apparently field scientists were rarely able to _finish_ their projects, instead always on the move and leaving the work to be shipped back to a base and finished by someone else.

No one could finish her projects better than her.

(And also Agent Weaver has described her as brilliant and as socially skilled as a cactus, which probably would’ve counted against her had she ever made the attempt.) 

So Jemma had never taken any field or defense training.

What would the point be?

The point, it turns out, is not being so easily taken hostage.

“You know you aren’t going to get out of this alive,” Samuel says, and Jemma wants to strangle him. She suspects her glare speaks to that threat, as he gulps and steps backwards with his hands still raised. Or maybe he’s trying to keep the mole who’s holding her hostage calm. Which is ridiculous given what he’s just said. Is he actually trying to get her killed?

“Yes,” says the man holding her, “I am. Miss Simmons is my ticket out of here – no one will hurt her.”

She has to grit her teeth not to say anything rash. It’s not that she doesn’t want to threaten the man and point out the stupidity of what he’s doing — they’re on the third floor of one of the inner most buildings in the complex, he’s not going to make it out with her — it’s just that he’s got a gun to her chin and despite his height is doing at least a slightly credible job of hiding behind her.

“Let’s just take a —“ she’s tries to say, calmly, but she’s cut off as he knocks her head back with the force of the muzzle against her jaw. Her teeth click together painfully and he’s tugging her back again and — her scrambling hand, trying desperately to find purchase as she’s forced on her toes by his grip, hits something on top of the lab bench and she wraps her fingers around it and it goes with them as he drags her backwards towards the door.

“Shut up!” He says, and they’re through the door.

There are what seem like a thousand blank white doors lining the corridor – she knows it’s less than that, she’s walked this hallway nearly every day for the past several years, but she’s never been dragged through it before.

It’s an unpleasant experience. One she hopes she never has to experience again.

The thing in her hand is a syringe. The problem is, she’s not sure _which_ syringe.

She’s been working on three different formulations from her samples off of Grant: One for their people to help increase fighting ability and stamina, one for interrogation with just the most unpleasant side effects, and one to help decrease healing time.

She’s not sure if she should stab herself or him or if it’s not –

Her foot slips and the gun jabs into her jaw again and his arm around her squeezes and her ribs ache from where he’d thrown her down earlier and then Samuel is following them out the door and –

Fuck it, Jemma thinks, angry and in pain and tired, and she jabs the needle into his thigh. He yelps and for one heart stopping moment she thinks he’s going to shoot her on accident but he doesn’t. He lets go of her chest to grab the syringe out of his thigh and she takes the opportunity to pull away from him and – his eyes are wide and she’s still not sure which one she injected him with.

But she’s away from him, and that’s the most important thing.

“What did you infect me with!” he demands – at the same time she’s stumbling back towards Samuel and saying, “Shoot him with your ICER!”

She thinks she says it, at least, but he’s not _doing_ it, even though he’s got it raised, or maybe it’s his gun she can’t tell from here and then there’s pain and she’s being yanked back by her hair and –

The pressure releases suddenly and then there’s what sounds like a firework or –

She sees his blood and brain painting the white white hall before there are hands grabbing her again and she fights back until she’s released enough to see who it is and –

Grant’s back hits the wall when she throws himself at him and she sees the blood smear behind him before she’s got her face hidden in his neck as he takes her whole weight with an arm around her waist and his fingers tangled in her hair. “Shh,” he says, “I’ve got you. You’re fine.”

She lets out a shuddering breath and pushes back enough to slide down so her feet are on the ground. “Whitehall is going to be mad he’s dead,” she says, voice as steady as she can manage, “he would’ve wanted a mole alive for questioning. Especially since Morse got away.”

Grant’s hand slips to the back of her neck, and then his other hand is tipping her face up. He’s got blood splatter against his jaw and a butterfly band aid keeping a cut closed high on his cheek, but otherwise he looks the same as the last time she saw him. “He was going to hurt you.”

His fingers ghost over her cheek and as her head turns slightly she catches sight of heads leaning out of cracked open doors up and down the hallway – where the commotion of her being dragged through the corridor hadn’t caught their attention, apparently the gunshot had. Her eyes narrow at their questioning gazes and she pulls further away from Grant.

“Vincent!” Grant snaps suddenly, and he’s looking over her to Samuel and jerking his head and then he’s leading her back into her lab and Samuel is grabbing the body and carrying it into the lab behind them.

“Oh Jemma!” “Are you okay?” “Was it terrifying?” “You were so brave!” “Did he hurt you!” “Oh I was so scared!” Kelsey and Anna’s voices run together into a hum off concern and questions as they hover around her. They don’t touch her, and she feels like Grant’s arm around her shoulders is, instead, an invisible shield that they won’t cross as their fingers flutter close and then away with their worry.

Grant leads her to a stool and she settles onto it gratefully. It’s her bench, he’s led her to, and, curious, she looks at the remaining two syringes and –

Her laughter clearly catches everyone by surprise and Grant snaps something at Samuel and then he’s holding her and her laughter is subsiding into hiccupping giggles. “Jemma?” Grant smells like gunpowder and sweat and blood and she probably shouldn’t find the smell comforting. “Tell me what’s wrong, sweetheart?”

“Nothing,” she says, and then giggles again for a minute before trying to explain, “It was – I shot him with – the syringe was the,” her giggles take over for another moment and she knows she’s starting to sound a little hysterical but the situation is just that, “the syringe with the rage formula. It was – he could’ve – he didn’t have a chance before when he had me, but he could’ve,” she hiccups again and it _hurts_ , “he could’ve gotten out with that, but instead he grabbed me and now he’s dead.”

“Ah,” says Grant, who is maybe the only one in the room who managed to follow what she said, or maybe he’s just better at pretending as the others exchange confused glances. “Then it’s good I shot him in the head, yes?”

She nods, fighting her hiccups, and then Anna is handing her a glass of water and she has to take a moment to try to drink upside down to make her diaphragm stop seizing.

Grant rubs soothing circles against her back as she waits, impatiently, to see if the hiccups have ended. “Okay,” he says, once she’s breathing smoothly again, “Gilbert, Lorenzo – process the body for any samples that Jem will want, preserve the rest for when she gets back. Vincent, make sure to get a report to Whitehall as soon as possible. I’m going to take Jemma back to her room, let her get cleaned up from this excitement, okay?”

No one argues, but all three of them look at her for confirmation, and after a moment’s thought she nods and offers them a weak smile. “Every tissue you can, even the stomach, and bile, urine, and mucus as well as blood,” she directs as Grant helps her off the stool and leads her towards the door.

Before he opens the door, she steps out of his grasp and turns back around to grab her bag, which she shoves the two left over syringes into. She doesn’t normally take her bag home – or actual compounds – but she knows she’s still shaken and this will help her feel safe.

Grant doesn’t say anything when she steps back into his side, simply winds his arm around her waist and opens the door. She appreciates it. If he said something she’d have to step away and walk on her own.

Most of the eyes have left the doorways, now, and there’s a lone janitor mopping at the blood and brains as they pass.

Jemma wonders, idly, as her gaze drifts back to the janitor even as they walk past, if working for Hydra pays better for them than somewhere else would. Dealing with all that viscera would, she thinks, be unpleasant. But then again, she decides as Grant leads her into the elevator, it might not be that different from working in a hospital.

By the time they make it to her apartment her hands are no longer shaking as badly, and it only takes her a touch longer than usual to unlock her door.

Grant takes her bag from her, and breaks the silence that had accompanied their entire walk, as he turns back and locks her door from the inside. “Why don’t you go take a shower? Change into something else – get comfortable.”

She wants to scoff, wants to tell him to go, wants to snark about him angling for a shower invite – but she doesn’t want to be alone right now. She doesn’t want to be alone at all. But she’s not quite willing to admit that to him. She feels like she should protest – but she’s terrified he’ll listen and leave, and so she finds herself frozen.

Her face must tell him something, because his expression softens further and he steps closer to tuck some of the hair that has fallen out of her ponytail behind her ear. “I’ll still be here when you’re ready. I’ll wait out here. Go. Clean yourself up.”

She lets out a breath, doesn’t lean into his warmth, and nods, turning away sharply to do just that.

A second later she leans out of the bathroom to throw a washcloth at him, he catches it despite her poor aim, and she snaps, “Use the kitchen sink to clean yourself up. Don’t get blood on my sofa!”

His half hearted protests follow her into the shower and make her smile.

It seems silly that a quick rinse and change of clothes should help her, but she’s feeling much more steady and more like herself when she emerges from the bathroom in a billow of steam, much later. She’s decided, despite knowing about the likelihood of someone coming to get her version of events, to be comfortable, and is wearing track pants and a cami, with her robe over the whole thing.

Grant is lying down on her sofa, feet hanging off the end and boots still on, and she thinks he might be asleep for a moment, before his eyes open to track her movement into the kitchen.

He’s taken off his tactical vest and left it by the front door. There’s a small arsenal of guns and knives on her coffee table and she shakes her head as she puts on some water for tea.

Grant has swung around to sit, properly, by the time she’s finished making the tea, and he accepts the mug she offers him with a suspicious sniff. “If this knocks me out,” he says, voice serious but eyes laughing, “I won’t be able to tell my side of the story.”

She rolls her eyes and leans forward, wrapping her fingers around his hand so she can tip the mug to her mouth and take a small sip. “Scardy-cat,” she says, and, releasing his hand, settles back into the cushions, curling her fingers around her own mug.

She rolls her eyes, again, as he turns the mug so he’s drinking from where she did as he takes his first sip, but she doesn’t say anything when his arm finds its way behind her neck and tugs her until she’s leaning against his side.

She probably _should’ve_ knocked him out.

She takes a sip of her tea, than another. She probably should've brewed caffeinated tea. It's early enough - still before noon - tat caffeine probably wouldn't hurt her. But she'd gone for an herbal blend, and as she sips it she can feel herself relaxing into the warmth of Grant at her side.

His fingers start to card through her hair. She should object, but it feels good, soothing the places that had been hurt in the confrontation. 

It takes her a moment to even realize he's humming something. She's not sure what it is - maybe a song, but not one she recognizes. 

Her eyes slip shut. 

Just for a moment. She's just going to rest them for a moment. 

He takes the mug from her lax grip and she can't muster the energy to protest, and then she's being shifted slightly on the couch to lean even more against him, and it's significantly more comfortable than it was before, and her objections flee along with her consciousness. 

She was up in her bed, a vague memory of being carried there and batting at Grant's hands as he fussed and tucked her in tickles the back of her mind. 

There are voices outside her bedroom.

By the time she's wiped the sleep from her eyes and brushed her teeth, Grant is shutting her door. "What did they say?" she asks. She's sure it was whoever the director sent to get their statements and give them their standing orders. She just hopes he's not too mad about the death of the mole.

“The Director wants you to take a few days off, recover fully from the event. He thinks your lab mates can cover all of your experiments for a few days, and I’ve been given orders to keep you entertained,” he holds out his arms and gestures expansively, as if she could’ve missed the verbal innuendo.

"Oh good," she says, "I've been meaning to test out a few compounds I have - for interrogation and the like. They're in my bag."

He laughs at her, and taps the tip of her nose as he goes past. “Alright, alright. What do you want for dinner – do you even have human food in here? I make a mean potato soup.”

She smiles, slightly, as she follows him into her kitchen. "I never said you could stay."

"Didn't tell me to leave," he replies, with that sharp smile that she's becoming unfortunately fond of.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It was a lot of fun to play in this universe again. As always, I consider it done with each new addition, but that doesn't mean there might not be more. I hope you all enjoyed this as much as I did!
> 
> Let me know what you think!

**Author's Note:**

> My writing tumblr can be found [here](http://capriciouswrites.tumblr.com/)! Come say hi and give me a prompt.
> 
> I hope you enjoy!


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